#they don't care about you

[whumpsday]

K&J: Kane's Whumptober Bites #2

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, angst, captivity

@whumptober Day 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.” / “They don't care about you.”

-

“Mother…” Kane whispered, like a prayer. It wasn’t like she could hear him anyway, so it didn’t matter if he screamed it at the top of his lungs or remained quiet as a mouse. “Please save me.”

Realistically, Father would be calling his underlings to rescue him. It was a scenario he’d played through his head many times. Vampires would burst in, unlocking his cell door with a key they’d swiped from a safely hypnotized hunter, and take him home. Home, where he would finally be safe.

Sometimes, though, he got less realistic. Mother and Father would come break him out themselves, hugging him and telling him how much they’d missed him, how worried they’d been. It was easier to imagine with Mother. Father had always been distant, even before his flaw became apparent. But Mother… he and Mother used to be close, when he was a little boy. A century ago.

They don’t care about you.

He knew it in his heart to be true. They hadn’t missed him before his capture, and Kane knew they certainly wouldn’t miss him now, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. Still, it was nice to dream.

The telltale footsteps of hunters echoed from down the hall, the delicious, terrifying scent of human drawing nearer and nearer. Another reminder that he was completely, utterly alone.

[whumpetywhump]

Whumptober Day 2 - "They Don't Care About You"

Devilish Joy - Ep. 14

Flowers For Algernon - Ep. 2

Iris 2 - Ep. 11

Love In The Air - Ep. 13

Remember You - Ep. 13

[isamajor]

June of Doom : day 6 to 10

More @juneofdoom's drabble with Skyrim Custom-voiced Followers ! :D

6 . “They don’t care about you.”  

Lucien woke abruptly, drenched in sweat. Panic clawed at his chest to the realization of having been left alone here. What if they didn't come back? What if they saw this as a chance to leave him behind, a burden no longer? Trembling, he got out of his stone bed with great difficulty, throwing himsef on his research notes and clutching them like a lifeline.

"They wouldn't... they promised...", he whispered. The Dragonborn, Inigo and the others wouldn't abandon him, right?

"They won't come back, but I am here, Master Flavius." replied the metallic voice of Dumbzthar. (101)

•

7 . “What happened?”   

Nebarra stumbled through the camp, reeking of alcohol. His companions watched with growing worry as he swayed, clutching a nearly empty bottle. The memories of the War were haunting his every waking moment and every nightmare-filled sleep. He tried to drown them, but the liquor only fueled his isolation. A part of him has remained in the Alik'r desert, with the rotting corpses of his comrades and enemies under the blazing sun. He was lost in the past, in the screams and the blood and the relentless guilt.

"I don't need your pity.", he slurred, when he met Xelzaz's concerned gaze. (105)

•

8 . “This is your last chance.”   

Taliesin gasped for breath, tied tightly to a chair, water dripping from his hair and clothes. His heart pounded in his chest. Taliesin's intense fear of water made every moment the worst possible nightmare. The Thalmor torturer loomed over him.

“This is your last chance.”, the torturer hissed.

The chair was tilted back, submerging Taliesin's in the water. Panic surged through him as he struggled, the bindings cutting into his skin. Taliesin's screams were muffled by the water. Just as he was about to black out, he was pulled up.

"Talk." , the torturer demanded.

Trembling all over, he shook his head in refusal. (105)

•

9 . “I made a mistake.” 

They were surrounded by a horde of skeletons and the Dragonborn remembered that they had something that could be useful : as they unfolded the experimental scrolls provided by J'Zargo, a surge of excitement coursed through them. But relief turned to horror as the magical energy spiraled out of control, engulfing Inigo in the explosion. Writhing in agony, the khajiit's fur charred and skin blistered from the intense heat. Kaidan's eyes narrowed accusingly at the Dragonborn, his voice laced with anger.

"This is why we can't trust magic.", he spat harshly, as everyone rushed to Inigo's aid. (101)

•

10 . “Can you hear me?” 

The smell of smoke was acrid and overpowering. As the flames danced wildly in the pyre, smoke saturated the air, triggering a haunting memory for Auri. Frozen in place, her breath caught in her throat, she stared at the flames with wide eyes, as if without seeing them, lost in the suffocating grip of the past.

“Auri, can you hear me?”

Remiel's gentle touch shattered the horrible vision of the burning forest. Auri blinked, haggard, on the verge of tears. She threw herself into Remiel's arms who gently took her away from the source of what had rekindled her trauma. (100)

[breezy-cheezy]

Whumptober Day 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

A fic for the aftermath of the fight with Phantylia, written before I played patch 1.3. All went more or less according to Jing Yuan's planning, but even he didn't quite forsee how...difficult the fallout would be.

All relationships in this fic are purely platonic, thank you!

-------------------

Five figures stand at the edge of the Ambrosial Arbor, deep in conversation. Heavy mists float lazily in the air as one of the figures lets out a heavy sigh.

“Phantylia…a truly fearsome enemy,” Jing Yuan says, placing a hand against his ringing head in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure there. There’s a strange, faint buzzing noise…“If she hadn’t attempted to turn me into a pawn of Destruction, I’m afraid victory would have been far from certain…” 

The general trails off as he sways before the others present, and Dan Heng’s arms twitch upward as if without thought. Jing Yuan notices this and removes his hand, straightening back to his full height and mustering a wry smile. “Phantylia had established a link between me and herself,” the general says, nodding toward Dan Heng. “Your well-timed strike gravely injured her —thus, her connection to the Arbor was severed.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[meetinginsamarra]

Whumptober Day 2 "They don't care about you"

Mary had been wrong when she assumed John would come around when he would be needed to save Sherlock. As if the only remaining purpose in John’s life would be playing the role of the white knight to save the sherlockian damsel in distress. Thus regaining his own will to carry on living after Mary’s death.

Mary said I only have to put myself into harm’s way and mean it! Then John could not refuse to help. To rescue me from myself. Or from Culverton Smith. From anything or anybody threatening to destroy me. And I followed her orders, so eager and willing to do everything to make John return.

It had seemed like such a logical plan. Feasible. Most likely bound to be crowned by success. But in the end it had been fallible. Because John had not come back to save him.

She told me to go right into hell. So I did. But now I’m there and I find myself alone. Abandoned.

Sherlock’s struggle against Smith’s hands turned into a mixture of feeble pawing and uncoordinated patting because Sherlock’s physical grasp on the murderer’s hands dwindled as fast as his mental grasp on reality.

John does not care for me anymore. Not even the slightest part of whatever kind of friendship we once had is left.

His time was running out.

Biting salty tears formed in the corner of Sherlock’s eyes.

---

Please tell me if anybody wants to get tagged or untagged (just say it, I won't get mad).

@helloliriels @calaisreno @7-percent @lisbeth-kk @inevitably-johnlocked @peageetibbs @gaylilsherlock @totallysilvergirl @discordantwords @alexisnoir @blogstandbygo @kabubsmagga

[99point9percentwhump]

Whumptober Day 2 “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”/They don't care about you

[orionares]

Whumptober, Day 2

Prompt- Day 2- "They don't care about you."

NCIS: Los Angeles

A/N: Late start!=]

—---

"Kade King- that name mean anything to you?"

Marty Deeks stops in his tracks, barely through the threshold of the Admiral's office. He hadn't expected anything remotely close to this question at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning- hell, he hadn't expected more than 'a 'sign this paperwork and then go back home to your girls' or a 'my bad, I missed dialed'.

Not the Admiral dressed in a black tux, LAPD Commissioner Imani James and a question about that man. 

Ex- detective Kade King, also known as current inmate#6395 at Twin Towers Correctional Center in Los Angeles.

Kilbride sits down in his office chair and leans back, emitting a squeak from the chair. "When was the last time you spoke to King?"

Deeks glances between Commissioner James and the large, weathered LAPD file sitting on her lap. "The last time I talked or looked the man in the eye was 2010. It was for his trial….Hetty gave me the day off and….why? King got twenty-five to life for rape, bribery and second degree attempted murder. "

"Attempted murder against you," Commissioner corrects. She's around his age with a cold expression across her face as she continues, "Investigator Deeks, as I know you have a newborn at home, I'll get to the point. King has information about the Skorpios crew and he won't tell anyone other than you."

Deeks' eyes flicker over to the Admiral, also displaying an impassive although grumpy expression. "King got twenty to life, meaning his minimum for parole is 2030. What could he possibly get from bartering? He's not getting out early unless he breaks out- elopes- escapes? Don't they all mean-"

"Investigator Deeks!" Kilbride calls out. He scowls when Deeks freezes mid-rant. "A driver is downstairs to take you to Twin Tower Correctional. Take the time to review everything that's happened with King and maybe review your last interaction."

No need to review that day, Deeks thinks as Kilbride and the Commissioner share a glance. I've never forgotten. 

—------

King is waiting, without a lawyer, when Deeks arrives .

Deeks slides past a bored looking Correctional officer and enters interview room #4 to face the sixty-one year old King. The man, once 5'8 and yet bulky and quick on his feet, leans back as far as he can with his wrists cuffed to the table. He's a little rounder now with his cold green eyes and scar hidden under his beard. 

"Look who the cat dragged in," King jokes. He scans Deeks from head to toe and snorts, "You haven't aged a day."

"Why am I here?" Deeks snaps. He crosses his arms and peers down at King. "Scratch that- why am I here at 7:15 in the morning?"

King scoffs, glances over towards the barred window in the right corner of the room and mutters, "You remember the last time we saw each other?"

When you'd glared at me across the courtroom,  Deeks recalls silently. The memory of sitting in the courtroom and feeling the anger resonating off of the ex-detective during sentencing.

"I hereby sentence you to twenty years to life, Mr. King, for the rape of Madison Nikalov, bribery and the attempted murder of a LAPD officer-"

King slams his both palms on the table, jolting Deeks out of the memory and back into the interrogation room where King is shaking his head at him.

"Still an idiot-"

"One- it's Investigator," Deeks huffs in annoyance and then asks, "Does Skorpios have a target?"

King ignores the question and points at Deeks' right leg. "How's the leg?"

Another memory flashes across Deeks' mind- King, charging at him after receiving the news that the officer who'd reported King for his crimes, was Deeks. No one had tried to stop King as he'd tackled Deeks to the ground, grabbed the closest sharpest object and-  

"By the way you walked in here, I'm guessing my little cut didn't do much damage," King continues. He cocks his head to the right and Deeks can feel the man's eyes linger on Deeks' neck. 

Deeks bites down on the inside of his cheek and thinks, Slicing my leg isn't a cut, you jackass. You gonna call you trying to strangle me as a snuggle?

"And when I-"

The Investigator holds up a hand. "I'm going to stop you right there, King. I am not here to share our feelings and catch up like old friends, especially-" He pushes himself off the wall, "- if it's for you reminisce on you trying to kill me for telling the truth-"

"After all these years, you still think you're special," King sneers. He leans forward across the table as far as he can go. "Good. That makes this so much more fun."

Deeks shakes his head, "The hell does that mean?"

"You know when I found out that you'd become a Fed, I'd been in disbelief…I thought I had taught you that you are a traitor and can't be trusted. But then I thought, NCIS would figure that out with their fancy government checks and big brains-"

"Stop-"

King's eyes darken as he smirks, "What makes you think NCIS won't throw you to the wolves at the drop of a hat? They don't care about you, Deeks- I thought I made that clear. "

"And I'm done." Deeks turns on his heels to walk off before King holds up a hand and mutters, "Fine."

King slides a crumpled piece of paper from the sleeve of his right arm and holds out the crumpled piece of paper. 

"What is this?" Deeks mutters and takes the paper. He unfolds the paper and feels a chill run down his spine at the dated printed image of a middle eastern woman, early twenties, grinning in front of an unrecognizable building. Below the picture are two handwritten names, the first one being- Talia Amin. 

"She's the daughter of Bahrain NCIS Station Chief Sayed Amin and about now," King twists his left wrist as far as he can in handcuffs, "he'll call his little sunshine and realize that she isn't traveling with her girlfriends around the capital." 

Deeks examines the handwriting that scribbles a second name- his own. 

"And in about an hour, Amin will get an email with one simple easy request to get his little girl-"

The Investigator doesn't need to hear the rest. Everything connects- the random call from the prison, the reminiscing and now the note-

A father will do anything to protect his child. Even if it means trading a life to get them back.

"My life for hers," Deeks concludes aloud. "I'm a bargaining chip."

King's smile widens like a Cheshire cat. "Told you it'd be fun." 

-------‐-

A/N: Part 2?

[befuddled-calico-whump]

The Soiree (part two)

@whumptober No. 2: “They don't care about you.”

cw: alcohol

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

"You'd think an occasion like this would make you more grateful, Alexei."

The party guests had begun eating dessert, and Uriah had whisked Lex away to an empty corner of the room as soon as they were busy.

"Grateful?" Lex mumbled in return, leaning heavily on the wall behind him. How much had he had to drink? He'd lost count. The room was spinning, and the night was still young. 

"It should put things into perspective. How good you have it."

(Would, should, could.)

"Good, huh?" Alexei let out a bitter laugh. How good, all the forced missions and the punishments and the ever-present threat of the Tower. "Are you stupid?" he mumbled, his usual restraint around his words dulled by the alcohol.

Luckily for him, Uriah seemed more amused than offended. "None of these people care about you, Alexei. None of them have the foresight to see how useful you can be."

"And that makes me fortunate?"

"You don't agree?" Something predatory had appeared in Uriah's smile, but caution was far from the front of Lex's mind.

"Fuck you," he replied, but Uriah only laughed.

"You don't seem to see things my way now. I look forward to seeing your shift in perspective by the end of the night."

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing , @bloodinkandashes , @fleur-alise ,

[librathefangirl]

The Truth Hides in the Cracks of the Ice

ao3 (Chapter 1/1; 1.6k+)

It was just him and the figure and the cold, cold snow. That was… wrong? The voice laughed a sharp and freezing laugh, “Don’t you get it? They don’t care about you.” Whumptober Day 2: Delirium + "They don't care about you."

Read on ao3 or under the cut!

Meliodas leaned heavily against the wall. It felt icy and cold against his back, sending shivers throughout his body. He wrapped his legs up closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and resting his chin on top of his knees. His skin was burning to the touch yet Meliodas felt as freezing as the snow surrounding him. The snowflakes continued falling harshly, whipping around in the winds, and coating him with a thickening layer of snow. The strong winds pulled and tugged at his hair and clothes. The storm howled loudly through the air. However, even over it, Meliodas caught the tell-tale sign of steps in the snow. Slow but steady. Step by step they inched closer. Meliodas zeroed in on them; everything else muffled into the background. He pushed even closer to the wall, trying to become smaller as he glanced around desperately. It was pointless, all he saw was white and snow and the wall he was leaning against. He was all alone.

“Hmm?”

Meliodas startled. The sound itself was nothing more than a soft hum, but at the same time, it was as sharp and loud as a whistle in a quiet forest. The footsteps had stopped. Meliodas stared back out into the nothingness. Gaze traveling frantically over the same white, white– There! Out in the middle of the snowy landscape was a silhouette. Tried as he did, he couldn’t make out any features, just the vague form of a person. Somehow it felt… familiar?

“All alone, are we?”

There was a twinge of satisfied animosity in the voice that spoke. Suddenly, large shapes rose behind the figure’s back. Another chill wrecked Meliodas’ body. This one, however, had nothing to do with the cold around them or his own burning heat. Meliodas recognized those shapes. He knew them by hearts. They were wings – and not just any wings. Goddess wings. That– No, that wasn’t possible. The goddesses were long gone. They had lost their physical forms in the old war. As exaggerated as human tales could be, this one was true. Meliodas knew it was true. There were no goddesses walking around in Liones. Not like this anyway…

“But that is hardly surprising. Isn’t that right, Meliodas?”

The voice rose in volume, thundering against his eardrums, yet the figure remained where it stopped. So did Meliodas. He wanted to move. Move, run, flee. Away from this voice, from this silhouette, from the memories they brought with them. His body didn’t obey. It had become a frozen, unmoving part of the wall.

“I-I’m not a-lone,” Meliodas mumbled. He glanced around again, but he still couldn’t see anything else. It was just him and the figure and the cold, cold snow. That was… wrong? He couldn’t remember what had happened. How did he end up here? Where were the others? They should be here, shouldn’t they? Why… Why was he alone?

The voice laughed a sharp and freezing laugh, “Don’t you get it? They don’t care about you.”

“You–” No. This was wrong. “You’re… wrong?”

“Oh, I am? You don’t even sound sure yourself. You know they don’t really care, don’t you?”

Meliodas gritted his teeth, hating the way the tears burned in his eyes, “They care– They do!”

“They do?” That horrible laugh rang out again. “But for how long? Hmm, for how long can you keep pretending, demon?”

“They care,” Meliodas repeated, shaking his head. The action was sluggish. It was becoming even harder to move, even the littlest of movements took more energy than Meliodas had. The edges of his vision were starting to blur. They care, they do, they care – the mantra in his head kept going with growing desperation as the first tears slid down his too-hot skin. Was that the truth? Or was the voice right? Was Meliodas just pretending, trying to convince himself of the lies?

“They won’t,” the voice promised, cutting through his thoughts relentlessly – but it, too, was starting to fade. Though despite the loudness starting to disappear, the sharpness of the words remained. They hurt. “Not when they find out the truth they won’t.”

Meliodas couldn’t find his voice again, couldn't form any words. Even if he had been able to, it wasn’t like he could refute the words that hung in the air between them. There was nothing to say to that; the voice was right. Meliodas' eyelids started growing heavier and he let them fall like the snow and the tears. The cold called to him as the world disappeared around him. Still, one last time, the laugh echoed in his ears.

“Why would they still care?”

– X –

When Meliodas opened his eyes again, the laughter was gone. So was the snow and cold. A figure hovered nearby, but its features were clear to him. It was familiar, and a comfort even.

“Mer-lin?” Meliodas croaked out; his voice hoarse and breaking off in the middle.

The mage looked up from the book she was reading, a small smile flashing across her face. She put the book away and walked over to the bed Meliodas was lying in. His skin still felt too hot, the cloth placed on top of his head soothingly cold in comparison. There was a thin blanket covering him, offering comfort rather than heat. His whole body was exhausted and aching. Even the small act of turning his head to the side took more effort than it should.

“Glad to see you awake, Captain,” Merlin greeted him, handing him some water. The fluid was cool as it ran down through his throat. When Meliodas spoke again, his voice was more stable; holding out through the sentence, yet remaining a bit hoarse.

“What happened?” Meliodas asked, frowning. His memories of earlier – today? Yesterday? How long had he been out? – were fuzzy at best. 

“Thermal shock,” Merlin explained. She crossed her arms with a frown of her own. “I think it was the suddenness of the storm. It came unexpectedly and with quite a drop in temperature. You’ve been asleep for most of the day now.”

Oh . That made sense actually. Normally, Meliodas could handle the cold better than most people. Thermoregulation in demons worked differently, with their body temperature rising and falling opposite of the outer temperature. Normally , his body temperature would only have risen just a little to compensate for the colder atmosphere. Given the sudden and large drop, it seemed his temperature instead had jumped too high, into a hyperthermic state. No wonder he felt so warm.

“That sucks…”

Truth to be told, while Meliodas could remember feeling like he was burning, and shivering and the snow, he couldn’t remember much of what had actually happened. The details were just out of his mind’s reach. Except for one thing… Meliodas could remember the voice of the vague figure. He could remember it almost as vividly as he was now hearing Merlin’s. Its words and laughter still rang in his head.

“You okay?” Merlin asked. Through the dull ache, Meliodas felt his entire body tense up, suddenly becoming very aware of the frown still on Merlin’s face. He forced his lips up in a smile, tried to give her a false-relaxed look.

“Yeah, don’t worry, kiddo. I’m feeling a lot better.”

It was a good attempt, albeit a failed one. Merlin’s frown didn’t falter. The old nickname did nothing to distract her from the situation as Meliodas had hoped it would.

“That might have worked with the others, but I know you better than that, Meliodas.”

Meliodas grimaced, letting his smile drop again. Yeah, that was fair. He supposed it would take more than a smile to fool her after all these years. So, instead, he settled for something truth-adjacent.

“I-…” They don’t care about you. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t real… I’ll be fine."

Merlin just hummed, looking at him with that look. Meliodas always hated it when she did that; it felt like she could see right through him, know all the little things he didn’t want to voice.

“You gave us all quite a scare, you know.”

“Y-eah?” Meliodas mumbled a little shakily, trying to block out the voice still echoing in his mind. It hadn’t been real. Nothing more than a fragment of his overheated mind. Its words shouldn’t matter.

“Of course,”  Merlin said, watching him for another moment before sighing, the look finally easing off her face. “We hadn’t even noticed you leaving. By the time we found you, you were barely conscious.”

Meliodas gave a little hopeless shrug, “Just needed to step away for a moment.”

“Well, next time, let me know when you’re feeling a little hot.”

“That would probably be wise,” Meliodas admitted with another grimace. “The others…?”

“I managed to calm them down. It went a lot easier once you stopped mumbling gibberish.”

“I spoke?” Meliodas questioned. That… was bad.

“Nothing comprehensible,” Merlin said, giving him another suspicious look. This, however, was not a secret he intended to share even with her. “And as far as they know, you just had an… unusual reaction to the snowstorm.”

Right, most people froze in the cold. Meliodas wasn't like most people. They won’t. Not when they find out the truth , the voice reminded him.

“You should get some more rest while you can, Captain. I’m not sure how long I can keep them away once I tell them you’re finally awake.” Merlin told him. Meliodas mumbled a thank you before she disappeared out the door, leaving him alone in the room. He sank deeper into the bed. The thought of seeing the others wasn’t as comforting as it usually was.

Why would they still care?

The worst part was that Meliodas didn’t have an answer. After all, the voice was right. The other Sins had no reason to trust him, to still care about him, once they found out the truth about who he was and what he had done. It was only a matter of time. Eventually, this delusion of his would be over.

---

My demon thermoregulation (from The Heat of the Storm) strikes again! (Poor Mel). Also, yes, I will have Meliodas call Merlin kiddo every chance I get now. That headcanon has apparently taken up permanent residence in my brain XD

[peach-cream-tea]

Recently i've had this experience where my friends and I will watch a romance show and I will comment on how I believe a gay romance would be fun to have in the show. And multiple times i've been told that the romance is fine as it is and i don't need to add "unnecessary gay people" into the plot. But my friends don't understand why I cling so hard to these Queer characters.

They will never understand how alienating it is to be a queer person with straight friends. They will never feel that they need to ignore a core part of themselves just so people treat them with respect. They will never have their opinions ignored because "we aren't a the same." They will never have to pretend to be someone they are not, just so they can feel included. They will never have to cling on to Queer characters because without them, you are a complete outcast. I don't hate them for their ignorance but it makes me tired. They will never understand

[aquietwritingcorner]

They Don't Care About You

Title: They Don’t Care About You Day: Whumptober, Day 2 Prompt: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back,” Thermometer/Delirium/“They don’t care about you.”  Fandom: TMNT 2003 Word Count: 979  Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: T  Characters: SAINW Mikey Warning: SAINW. I mean, that should say it all. Summary: The days after Mike lost his arm were hard ones for all involved. But perhaps Mike learned the hardest lesson of all—his brothers didn’t care about him anymore.    Notes: Poor Mikey   AO3 || ff.net

_______________________________________

They Don’t Care About You

Mike gasped and shuddered, moaning as he reached his right arm over towards his left. Someone pushed his arm back down, not unkindly, but still with a decent amount of force. He moaned again, and opened his eyes, staring blearily at the figure above him.

“Mikey? Mikey, can you hear me?”

It took Mike a moment to register the voice. “April,” he said, his voice breathy and not strong at all.

“Mike,” she said, sounding relieved.

Mike blinked at her, trying to understand what was happening. The last he remembered, he and a group from the underground had been on a mission to get some weapons. They had been in place, and had gotten to the crate when—

Mike started struggling to sit up. “April,” he gasped out, trying to focus on her with limited success. “The shipment—it was a trap! The team—”

“Mikey, shh, stay down,” April said, pushing him back down on the bed a little too easily. “We know. We got the call, but… we couldn’t get there in time. We saved who we could, but in the end, we lost sixteen people. Only three from your team made it back—including you.”

Mike stared at April, squinting to make her come in focus. “What? No, I—” he went to push up again, but there was a lack of support, on his left side. He faltered and started to turn his head towards it, only for April to catch his head in her hands.

“Mikey,” she said, her voice and eyes watery in a way they hadn’t been in a long time. He couldn’t look away. “By the time we got there, you were badly injured. I—I’m sorry. But there was no way to reattach it.”

Mike stared at her with wide eyes. “Reattach?” he said, fear beginning to build in him.

This time she didn’t stop him from looking. His left arm from above the elbow, it was gone. Mike stared, only partially hearing what she was still saying.

“We’ve done the best we can,” she said. “We’re keeping it as clean as possible, and we’re hoping that infection won’t set in. I—I’ve called Leo and Raph, but we’ve not heard back yet. But don’t worry, Mikey. I’m sure they’ll come when they hear.”

“Yeah,” he said, still staring at where his arm used to be. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Despite the best job of the medics and of April, infection did set into what was left of Mike’s left arm. It probably could have been prevented if they had started him on some antibiotics right away, but with as few supplies as the resistance had, they didn’t want to use them until they were sure they were needed.

Mike blearily stared up at April from his cot in the medical wing—which was really little more than a big room with cots set up, and marginally cleaner and more stocked than the rest of the base—as she pulled the thermometer away.

“Your fever is still climbing,” she said with a frown. “That’s not good. And I’ve still not heard from Leo or Raph.” She reached down and stroked Mike’s forehead, trying to comfort him, Mike was pretty sure. “I’m sorry, Mikey, we’ll keep trying.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Mike managed to get out. “I’m sure they’ll come.”

April gave him a smile. “I’m sure they will.”

Mike closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he wasn’t sure what, exactly, was going on. For a moment, he thought he heard the voices of his big brothers, or at least of Raph, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. He couldn’t see Raph or Leo. Where were they? Where were his big brothers? He knew they hadn’t been a family in a long time, but surely, they’d come now, right? He looked around, trying to find where their voices were coming from.

“We ain’t a family no more, Mike! Get that through yer head!”

“Family stays together. We ended that a long time ago.”

“Psh. I ain’t got no more reason to have any connection to Leo. None.”

“If Raph wants to get himself killed, why should I care? It’s not like there’s anything tying me to him.”

“Stop it, Mike! I don’t care! No one cares anymore!”

“Don’t even try Mike. I don’t care anymore.”

“I don’t care!”

“I don’t care!”

“Mikey?”

Mike turned his head to the side, searching out the source for a voice he hadn’t heard in far, far too many years. For a moment, he thought he saw his brother and his breath caught. Donnie was outlined in the doorway, his shell was facing him, although his brother was looking over his shoulder.

“Don!” Mike cried out, struggling to sit up, to get up, to get to his brother.

“Sorry, Mike. But it’s clear there’s nothing here for me anymore. Why should I care, when none of you could bother to? Bye, Mike. Good luck.”

“No—No, Donnie!”

Mike tried to push up, reaching out with his one hand towards the door. But suddenly there were people trying to push him down, trying to keep him in place, and unfamiliar voices all around him.

“No, no, no, Donnie, no!”

Don paused for a moment, his shell and the back of his head facing Mike, and then we walked out of the door.

Mike howled, his grief breaking like a dam as the people around him finally pushed him down on the cot. He heard them sending for April, but Mike didn’t care anymore. He threw his good arm—his only arm—across his eyes and cried. He knew now. He knew the truth. He knew what his mind was telling him, something he had refused to acknowledge for far too long.

They don’t care about you.

Mike tilted his head back and howled out his grief and pain.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 2 - The Shadow of Death AU

This is canon verse-ish in that it's not modern, but not an actual canon event. Short and vague, haha.

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

Masterlist

No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.” | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

Contains: lady whump, implied noncon drugging, noncon touch, restraints, muzzle, a bit brainwash-y, open ending

.

.

There’s a thick fog over everything - her vision, her thoughts, her memories. It goes on for an eternity. She can’t remember a time that she wasn’t trapped here, in this fog. It’s always been too cold. The voices have always floated around her. The rope on her wrists and ankles, stretching out her limbs, has always been there, she can tell by the way it settles into her skin like it belongs.

The hands…the hands have always been there, too. Any time that they’re gone passes in a blur that she’s unaware of until they return. The hands are one with the pain, they leave scars on her mind everywhere that they touch. 

“Bru-…Brun-…” She remembers him. Somewhere, beyond this existence, there was a light, and that was his name. “Bruno…please…” 

She knows he won’t answer. He hasn’t answered any other time, no matter how much she pleads. 

“Shh.” One of the voices comes closer, breath too hot as it brushes across her cheeks. “No more of that.” Fingers pry her chin downward, and cold metal presses against her tongue, leather straps cutting into her lips. She chokes on a sob, any words that her mind could conjure now trapped. “He doesn’t care about you, otherwise he would be here, wouldn’t he? You’re where you belong now.”

He should be here. She wants him to be here. She wants him to take her away from here, but there is nothing else but here. He doesn’t exist. There’s only cold and pain and hands and fog.

The voices want her to give into it all. Maybe they’re right. Maybe she should.

[kaesaaurelia]

human things and demon things

For @whumptober day 2, using the prompts "delirium," "They don't care about you," and the lyric prompt, "I'll call out your name, but you won’t call back."

Continued from Day 1, wherein Crowley definitely did not move into the bookshop, took a nap on the couch afterwards, and when he woke up his lungs hurt and he passed out.

Muriel was aware that they weren't technically supposed to be helping Crowley, because he was a demon, and therefore The Adversary. But he had been so nice to them and brought in all those lovely things earlier -- plants, he'd called them, and something called a statue. Muriel had been very curious about the statue until Crowley told them not to be, at which point they had of course stopped wondering about it.

(They hadn't, really. They had tried very hard! But it was difficult to stop wondering about things. They felt a bit bad about that.)

Anyway, apparently what he was doing was not Sleep, which had looked very peaceful, and that made a lot of sense, actually, because what he was doing now was extremely not peaceful. "Fuck off," he muttered as Muriel engaged a minor miracle allowing them to scoop up the twitching demon from the floor. "'Mnot going."

"Not going where?" they asked, wondering who they ought to bring him to.

"Heaven. I'm not going, I'm not gonna be an angel again, I won't go," said Crowley.

"I don't think I have the authority to do that," said Muriel, but then Crowley twitched and tried to wriggle free, and they had to work to keep hold of him. "This would really be much easier, actually, if you didn't do that?" they said hopefully, but Crowley did not seem to care about that. Which did follow; he was a demon, and so of course he would be working to thwart everything Muriel did. But also, Muriel was trying to help him, specifically.

Now Crowley was muttering something about Aziraphale. Muriel couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but he sounded like he was talking to Aziraphale. And Aziraphale definitely wasn't here.

Crowley had said that Sleep generally involved not being aware of exactly what was going on, of maybe even having… strange and imaginative ideas, and experiencing things that weren't happening. Muriel thought it all sounded very unsettling, but that was demons for you, probably. Perhaps this new, not-good thing Crowley was doing was not Sleep, but Sleep-like, in that he was experiencing things that weren't happening?

They decided that perhaps someone who had a greater understanding of Earth Things would be able to help, because if this un-Sleep he was doing was a different thing they did on Earth, maybe a human would recognize it, and would know how to make him stop doing it. So they went to the nearest human they could think of, the one that had all those flat black things that made music if you knew how to coax it out of them.

When Maggie saw them come in through the door, she looked up cheerfully and then her face went extremely not cheerful very fast. Muriel felt like probably they should have not let that happen, but they weren't sure how. "What's happened to him?"

"I don't know," said Muriel, "but it's not Sleep, he said so before he fell."

"He fell?" Maggie asked. "Come on, put him down… somewhere, how are you even carrying him?"

Oh. Was that unusual? "I, um. As a human police officer --"

"Sweetheart, we all know you're an angel," said Maggie.

"…Oh," said Muriel.

"Sorry. It was a bit obvious you weren't human, though. Most humans don't introduce themselves as humans?"

"Oh," Muriel said again, a bit perplexed by this. Why wouldn't they? Humans were so odd. "Well. Um. As, a, not-human, non-police-officer… it's a miracle?"

"Fuck miracles," muttered Crowley.

"Well, at least he's still himself," said Maggie. "Crowley, can you hear me?"

"Nh. 'Ziraphale let me go," he demanded.

"I think he thinks I'm Aziraphale," said Muriel.

"Oh no. That's very awkward. Here, put him on the countertop," she said, moving some things over so that he would fit. "I guess he must still be breathing. I don't really know a lot about… demon things."

"Neither do I!" said Muriel, putting Crowley down. "There, I've put you down. Also I'm not Aziraphale," they told Crowley.

His eyes opened very slowly. "Nnh. 'Course not. He fucked off, didn't he?" he said, miserably.

"Look, are you all right? Can you sit up?" Maggie asked.

Crowley seemed to be making the attempt, but after a moment he winced and said, "No. Alsso. I'm sso dizzy. 'Ss… all the tiny lung knives, I think."

Muriel supposed that must be a human thing; that seemed like the sort of thing humans would go for, being a. a material object; b. relating to bodily organs; c. and needlessly unpleasant. But then Maggie mouthed Tiny lung knives? and she looked very confused, so maybe it wasn't, actually.

next part

[z-ppy]

Whumptober Day the First

Skipped prompt #1, reposting this because I wasn't satisfied with the last draft.

Prompt #2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don’t care about you.”

Jack has a fever, and everything Michael said to him is coming back.

___

“Jack… Jack.” 

Jack looks up, startled. Across the kitchen, Sam’s holding up two packages of deli meat. Various condiments, a bag of bread, and a ball of lettuce are spread out on the counter in front of him. 

“Hm?” Jack shifts in his seat at the table. He feels odd, like his skin doesn’t fit over his bones right.

“I asked what you want on your sandwich.” 

“Oh–” 

“Ham ‘n’ cheese, please,” Dean says, coming through the doorway and plopping down at the table next to Jack.

“You can make your own sandwich, Dean.” 

Dean jabs a thumb in Jack’s direction. “So can he.” 

Sam sighs and ignores him. “What kind of meat, Jack?” 

“Um, turkey?” Jack squints at the options. His vision is weird – he can see fine, but his brain isn’t processing the images. 

Sam looks puzzled. “Ham or roast beef is what we’ve got. Dean only bought red meat at the store this time.” He glares at his brother. 

“Oh, uh, I guess…” There’s too much going on. He’s trying to follow Sam and Dean’s casual bickering and understand what Sam wants from him at the same time. He remembers his glass of water, and takes a sip. It’s cool against his hot throat. 

Sam’s waiting, eyebrows traveling further and further up his forehead. 

The water is good. He takes another sip, but chokes this time. The harsh coughs scrape past his throat. Dean thumps him hard on the back. 

“I think I’m… I’m not hungry,” he croaks. Dean, hand still resting between Jack’s shoulder blades, makes eye contact with Sam. Dean mouths something. Sam nods his head in Jack’s direction. Jack’s trying to figure out what’s going on when he feels Dean’s palm against his forehead, then the backs of his fingers on his cheek. 

“Yep, he’s running a temperature.” 

“No, I–” Oh. That would explain why his clothes were scratchy against his skin, and why he’d been feeling strangely chilly all morning. Had he been more lucid, he might have noticed how often he was shedding his sweatshirt only to put it back on minutes later, and how he needed to clear his throat before he spoke. 

Sam sighs, setting the deli meat down. “I’ll go find a thermometer. Make your own sandwich, Dean.” 

Sam heads off to hunt down a thermometer and some ibuprofen, and Dean gets to work on his sandwich, any concern for Jack obviously not getting in the way of his lunch. Jack watches from the table. At some point, his head sinks down onto folded arms and he lets his burning eyes slip closed. 

__

“Jack, hey.” Sam’s hovering close, holding out a thermometer. “You have a fever, so we need to measure it by taking your temperature. Your fever’s why you’re feeling bad right now.” 

“I know what a fever is,” Jack grumps. 

Sam smiles, embarrassed. “Sorry. Just put this under your tongue for me, okay?” He presses the button and hands it over. Jack takes the offered thermometer and tucks it under his tongue, cringing at the way the slick plastic feels in his overheated mouth. All his nerve endings are buzzing, sensitive and prickly. He shudders and squirms. 

“This sucks, I know.” Sam rubs his arm. The soft touch is painful against his aching skin and muscles, and Jack pulls away. Sam looks hurt, but then the thermometer beeps and he takes it back. Dean waits to hear, chewing a huge bite of sandwich. “102.2” Sam announces. “That’s a pretty decent fever.” He frowns down at Jack. “Why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well?”

Jack shrugs. He honestly doesn’t know. Being human is weird and it’s hard to tell the difference between being tired, hungry, nauseous, or just overwhelmed. Sometimes his skin feels this way, prickly and tight and squirmy, when too much is happening and he needs a break. He takes a deep breath and pulls the collar of his sweatshirt over his mouth to cough. It’s deep and barky, and it hurts.

“That doesn’t sound like it feels very good,” Sam says sympathetically. Jack tries hard not to scowl. Sam is trying to be considerate and gentle, but it’s coming off as patronizing. His indignation fades as Sam puts a cool hand on his cheek. “What hurts?” 

Jack clears his throat with a short cough. “My throat, head, and, um, skin?” He looks up, expecting Sam to laugh at him, but he only takes his hand away from his face and nods. 

“I bet.”

___

He didn’t want the weird blue liquid cold medicine, and he tried but couldn’t swallow the pills. Dean got frustrated and took his sandwich to the library, but Sam did his best to reason with him.

“It feels weird,” Jack tried to explain. “The cold medicine tastes like a warm gooey popsicle. It’s wrong.” He could see that Sam didn’t get why he couldn’t just hold his nose and take it like a shot, but when Jack choked twice trying to swallow the pills instead, Sam gave up, and suggested they try again later.

__

Jack really wishes he could have managed the medicine. He’s curled up in bed, shivering. His phone tells him it’s 7:06pm. He can faintly hear Sam and Dean clamoring around in the kitchen, arguing about what to order for dinner.

He should have been able to take the medicine they tried to give him. He shudders, and curls into a tighter ball. His weighted blanket doesn’t touch the deep ache in his bones. They tried to help him. They tried very hard. He felt like he was making things unnecessarily complicated. Dean said so, sometimes, when he got frustrated with him. 

Sam did his best to understand, but he still looked at it like it was developmental– that Jack was only technically a few years old, so of course the sensory stuff could get overwhelming and he needed to approach problems step-by-step. He threw around phrases like “overstimulation” and “demand avoidance” and did his best to be consistent. Even though it pissed Jack off that Sam treated him like a sensitive little kid, it was better than Dean, who just tried to make him push through it. He didn’t understand at all. 

But… Why should he have to put up with it? Michael’s –Dean’s– voice rings in his head. 

You’re a new burden that he was handed… a weak fragile thing…

The mattress dips. Jack cracks open his sore eyes to see Michael’s face hovering above him, lit by the hallway light coming through the open door. He tries to scream. 

“Hey! Kid, it’s okay.” Dean grabs his arm. Jack whimpers in pain and Dean instantly releases his grip. He places the gentle, unobtrusive backs of his fingers against Jack’s cheek. “Geez, you’re burning up.” Through the dim light, Jack can see that he looks sad. “I know you didn’t do so well with the medicine earlier, but uh, this might help your fever for now.” Dean’s holding a damp washcloth in his hand. He starts to place it on Jack’s forehead, but stops. “I’m uh, going to put it on your forehead. It’s cold and wet – is… is that okay?” He’s awkward about it, and if Jack was feeling better he would have laughed at him. 

“It’s okay,” Jack croaks softly. Dean lays the washcloth over his hot forehead and Jack sighs in relief. 

“Good, huh?” Dean says, a smile in his voice. “Get some rest, there’s water on your nightstand.” He pats the mattress twice and gets to his feet. “Door open or closed?”

“Cracked, please,” Jack says. Dean leaves a crack large enough for a sliver of light to slip through. Jack listens to his heavy footfalls fade up the hall. 

Dean kind of likes burdens, he thinks. It won’t make sense in the morning, when his fever breaks, but for now it’s a comforting thought. 

FIN

[hithertoundreamtof23]

Whumptober 2023 day 2

Prompt- "They don't care about you"

Sinister Strange dreamwalks into Stephen's body.

~~ Excerpt:

Stephen couldn't help but scream when he saw a third eye come out of his reflection’s forehead. Out of pure confusion and terror, Stephen brought his hand against his own head for clarification, finding that he did not have another eye, contrary to his doppelgänger.

“Hello, Stephen,” his reflection spoke.

Whumptober 2023 masterlist

[all-the-gory-details]

Whumptober Day 2

Thermometer / Delirium / “They don’t care about you.”

TW: Mentions of drugging, choking

96.

97.

98.

98 bricks on the first wall, painted white and stone-cold. They seemed to suck all the heat out of her. She hugged her knees closer to her body, seeking some small bit of comfort.

Georgia didn’t remember how she had gotten to the small, closet sized room.

She didn’t remember much of anything from the previous night.

At least, she thought it was the previous night. The room had no windows, no clock, no anything. Except for bricks.

She started to count the next wall.

The door opened before she reached 20. It was hard to make out the figure standing in the doorway, with the backlight from the hall and her still-blurry vision. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust before Alexei’s smirking face came into view.

Why was he smirking? He was supposed to be helping her. He had picked her up last night, rescued her from her parents, and then…

Trying to remember made her head hurt. She stopped trying.

Alexei leaned on the doorframe casually. “Feeling any better?”

“I-I… I d-don’t know-w-what-t’s-”

“Yeah, she’s still feverish,” Alexei said to someone outside the door. “You think it’s a reaction to the-”

“Obviously it's a reaction to the drugs, Alexei.” A woman with close-cropped hair and a sneer walked through the doorway, kneeling a foot in front of Georgia. “Either you gave her too much or she was drunk already. Or you’re just really unlucky and she’s allergic or something.”

Georgia looked between Alexei and the woman in confusion. Gave her too much what?

The woman reached into a leather bag slung around her shoulder and pulled out a thermometer. “Open up,” she commanded, scooting closer and holding it up to Georgia’s lips.

She shook her head, pushing back further into the wall. “I d-don’t… what’s g-going on?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I always forget how hard it is to deal with the untrained ones.” She grabbed Georgia's chin, hard, and forced her head up. Georgia gasped, trying in vain to wiggle away. She felt the cold mettle tip of the thermometer push into her mouth, and she clamped it shut to try to stop it.

The woman released her chin and moved her hand to wrap tightly around Georgia’s throat, restricting her air and sparking a fear so strong she didn’t know what to do with it. She thrashed about, trying to push away this stranger, but there was no hope of her winning such a struggle.

“Come on, sweet, under your tongue.”

She opened her mouth, just a little, and the thermometer settled into place. The hand around her throat loosened its grip, and she took in a shuddering breath, which quickly turned into a sob.

“Aww, crying already? We haven’t even done anything yet. Now close your mouth for me, that’s a good girl.” Georgia did as she was told and after a minute the women took the thermometer out, looking at the number displayed on the screen. “103.2. Not great, but not life threatening. Give her some tylenol and a few hours rest, she’ll probably be fine.”

“Sounds good,” Alexei said with a grin. He stood the woman’s hand once she had stood up. “Thank you, Lee. I’ll let you know when I need you again.”

“You always do,” she chuckled. “With the way you work, I’ll probably see you again tomorrow.” She left without another word and Georgia and Alexei were alone.

She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what question to ask that would make things make sense. She didn’t want to understand, though, not really. She just wanted…

“I want to go home.”

He scoffed. “What home? Home to your parents? They don’t care about you, do they? And you ran away. You don’t have a home to go to.”

“I t-thought you-”

“You thought I was going to save you? That we’d drive away and everything would be fine again? Life doesn’t work like that, Georgie.”

She sat for a moment in silence, realization washing over her.

This man wasn’t her friend. The person who knew all her deepest secrets, who had comforted her in her lowest times, didn’t…

“You don’t care.”

“I never did.”